Impossible
by Porcelain-Marionette
Summary: France and England have always had their issues, but England has been doing some thinking lately. Rated M for eventual smut maybe? and for general language.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All credit for the characters goes to the original creator.

The night wore on with a quietness that was normally welcomed with wide-open arms by the Brit. Tonight though, Arthur really wanted more than just a good book and the telly droning on in the background about some other dodgy bloke that was spotted around a school. His head fell back against the armrest and he stretched his legs out in front of him with a groan.

"A slight man, brown hair, clean shaven and last seen wearing black trousers and a hoodie was spotted…" the woman's voice went on in a tone heavy with concern and warning. It was all just a job to her though, she got paid to say it a certain way… he doubted she actually cared. Kids weren't as dim witted as adults seemed to think they were. They knew all about stranger danger and all that rot. He closed his eyes and rested the book on his chest. His mind wandered, work had been uneventful. Nothing but the usual paperwork, some employee calling in sick, having to rush to make up for the loss of reports not getting done… nothing exciting. Nothing exciting ever happened to Arthur. That thought made a soft voice speak up in the back of his mind, 'that's a lie and you know it.' It was right… he hated it for being so damn right. 'You haven't spoken to him in a while…' now that was an even worse truth. Why did his mind always have to fuck him over by shoving the truth in his face? Exciting things had happened to him… once. They didn't anymore, well it was more like he didn't let them happen to him anymore.

He rolled over a bit and stole a sidelong glance at the clock on the top of the TV. It was 1AM… he might be awake… though if he is he's probably entertaining. That thought hurt… way more than it should have. It sent a searing pain through his chest that made him jolt a bit on the couch.

Arthur shoved his book off his chest, letting it fall to the couch as he got up and stumbled his way into the kitchen. He fumbled for a glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice-cold water which he downed in seconds before refilling it. Fuck he hated these lonely nights.

'You know you want to talk to him,' there it was again, that annoying voice of truth or was it sadism… because really he did want to talk Francis but at the same time he knew nothing good would come of it. Nothing good had ever come of it. He grabbed for his glass again, filling it and downing the ice-cold water before he finally put it in the sink. He could do the washing in the morning. He moved back into the living room, slumped on the couch and closed his eyes.

The last time they had spoken had been months ago at a meeting. Arthur had been sitting at one end of the boardroom table and Francis at the other. They had gotten organized enough that they separated everyone according to who actually liked each other. It avoided some fights or arguments but not nearly enough. They would never have a peaceful meeting. Really sometimes they were all like giant children. Arthur had been taking notes while Alfred spoke, though he wasn't really paying close attention to the American. He was detailing the finer points of something completely unrelated to the silly story Alfred was rambling on about. He glanced up from his notebook, mistake, and met Francis' eyes. His breath caught like it almost always did, he cleared his throat and stood without thinking. A few people looked over at him, most had been wrapped up in something else, chatting quietly amongst themselves instead of paying attention to the main speaker.

"I'll uh…. Lu." He got out clumsily and turned away from the table, heading out. Well that hadn't been graceful, really what was he so worked up over anyway? They had just looked at each other. No it was the fact that their eyes had met… which meant Francis had to have been looking at him to begin with. Well that shouldn't have sent his heart racing like a little schoolgirl's. He shoved the thought down as he got to the bathroom and b-lined it right for an open stall. He closed the door and slid the latch home before he sank down onto the toilet seat. He was trying to sort through his thoughts when he heard the bathroom door open and close, followed by light footsteps.

"Angleterre?" Francis' voice made Arthur look up and outwardly groan. He didn't want to talk to him right now… he didn't want to look at him either.

"What Francis?" Luckily Arthur managed to inject some venom into his voice as he asked that.

"You left rather quickly…" was the reply from the other side of the stall wall. "Are you okay?"

"Oh bugger off Francis, you don't actually care. What is it you want?" Arthur knew hiding behind the metal door was childish, but he really didn't want to open it and face the him right now.

"Well if you're going to be rude then I'll just leave." He heard shuffling outside the door, then a pause and a cough. "But I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee after the meeting."

Arthur stiffened and bit his lower lip at that, what had he been expecting from Francis? Really? It took him a moment before he worked up the nerve to answer. "No, I don't want to get coffee with you. Now will you leave me alone Francis?"

No answer came after that and he heard the door opening and closing, then the silence set in. When he had returned to the meeting a few minutes later Francis wasn't there and the rest of the day passed with only a few arguments and no further sight of Francis.

Arthur cracked his eyes open as the telly flickered to a new program, an old lady who was holding wood human shaped figures and answering sex questions had replaced the news. Now he remembered why he didn't stay up and watch late night telly.

Arthur pushed himself up off the couch again and grabbed the remote to turn the telly off before he headed up stairs to bed. His book long forgotten as he stumbled to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, he normally avoided looking in the mirror but tonight he spared a few glances and grimaced. When he was done he pushed fingers through his short blond hair and headed for his bed. He doubted he would be able to sleep, but maybe if he was at least in bed he would have more of a chance.

As soon as his head hit the pillow though his mind betrayed him and wandered back to Francis. They'd had an off again and on again relationship over their long lives, mostly an off one. He groaned and closed his eyes tightly as he tried to turn his brain off. Why was he thinking about this tonight? His evening had started off quiet and completely France free.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Lines from the song Quelqu'un M'A Dit by Carla Bruni, the characters belong to their original creator. I apologize for my French, it's a little rusty.

The morning light filtered in through the window, making shadows dance across his eyelids. His hand reached out and ran over the rumpled sheets next to him, fingers finding nothing but tangled blankets and sheets which made him frown a bit.

Francis cracked his eyes open and winced a bit as too bright sunlight blinded him for a few seconds. When his vision cleared there was no one there. Well what had he been expecting? Someone to be laying next to him, someone he could wake up to and smile at and whisper good morning too?

"Merde, am I getting old or senile?" he mumbled to himself as he climbed out of bed, freeing himself from the cream sheets. He glanced down at his alarm clock, which blinked 7AM as the sweet sounds of Carla Bruni drifted out from it's small speakers. He hummed along to the tune and slipped into the words easily as he went about his morning routine.

"On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous…" his voice sank a bit, sliding into jeans and a button down casual shirt.

"Pourtant quelqu'un m'a dit…" he combed his fingers through his hair and tucked his phone in his pocket before he finally pushed the off button on his alarm clock, letting the silence fill the bedroom.

The line that got cut off in the song was still leaving his lips though as he left the bedroom. "Mais qui est-ce qui m'a dit que toujours tu m'aimais?" Francis' mind wandered to blond hair and green eyes, to waking up to them and smiling faintly… to how sweet those lips were to taste and savour.

"But who is it that told me you always love me?" he faltered in pouring his coffee as the words came unbidden from his lips. The small spill made him chuckle dryly, his free hand going to his forehead and rubbing. "I am going senile. Clearly." Francis chuckled to himself as he cleaned up the small mess and finished making himself his breakfast of yogurt and fruit.

His day went by much to slowly, a casual Saturday of running errands. He stopped for lunch in the park, enjoying the sunshine and watching people mill about. Happy couples walking hand in hand as they chatted and flirted. Francis nibbled on his bread and cheese and simply settled in to watch. His attention drifted and his mind wandered, finally straying from the person that had been dominating it almost all of the morning.

A young woman was sitting on the grass, a book in her hands and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She had long blond hair that was piled neatly on her head and held in place by a hair stick, beads glinting in the light that filtered through the leaves of the tree she was camped under. She was completely absorbed in her reading as he watched her, admired her really. The woman was dressed in a loose fitting sweater that looked like it was just the right thickness to ward off the slight chill that still hung in the spring air. The white of the material reflected just enough of the sunlight to highlight her high cheekbones and painted lips. She was wearing jeans that looked like they were torn and well worn, probably purchased like that.

Francis finished off his last bite of bread and cheese and gathered his two bags. He considered approaching her and introducing himself. He could probably get a dinner date, give her a romantic evening which would lead to a night of sweet but meaningless sex. He adjusted the bags in his hands and smiled a bit. It would be a good night, wonderful for both of them and just the distraction he needed. With that bit of resolve in line he approached her and slid right into his smooth greeting.

The night went about as well as he had predicted it would go, the food had been perfect the drink better and the conversation light and easy. When he brought her back to his place he pulled out another bottle of wine, a young one, nothing special. He'd turned on the lilting voice of Carla, letting her soft words fill the living room. A few glasses of wine later and the night went much as he had hoped it would.

The next morning Francis woke, his hand reached out and lightly combed through long blond hair. He smiled faintly, kept his eyes closed and held onto the lingering images of his dreams. He heard the soft breaths of the person next to him, heard them shift and stir as the morning light started to wake them up as it had him.

"Morning, mon cher" he whispered lightly and cracked his eyes open to see the pale green eyes looking back at him as Justine smiled faintly. She didn't say anything, just smiled and leaned in to steal a light kiss before she slowly got up, the cream sheets pooling around her, Francis took the chance to admire her. Watching the way the morning light touched her skin, made her glow. He reached out to brush his fingers through her hair before he let her climb out of the bed. His eyes continued to follow her as she found her clothes and slipped into the bathroom.

Francis rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and reached out blindly till his hand landed on the alarm clock. Working from memory he found the right button and Carla's sweet voice filled the room, the same song from the morning before.

"Mais qui est-ce qui m'a dit que toujours tu m'aimais?" right where it had left off. Those words sank in as Francis laid as still as possible, soaking in the warmth of the morning. Jusitne had been everything he had been looking for, sweet and meaningless. He listened to Carla, to the sound of the shower running and the faint sound of the world outside his window. He hadn't woken up alone.

When the water stopped in the bathroom he waited, laying still and keeping his eyes closed. He heard her come out and heard her say something. He tilted his head, peeked out at her and nodded a bit. She knew this wasn't going to be anything more than what it was. A simple one-night thing, she moved back over to the bed, leaned over and placed a feather light kiss on his cheek before she left.

Francis didn't move for another hour. He'd heard the front door open and close and he had almost drifted back off to sleep. Chasing his dreams from that night. Even a night of romance couldn't take his mind off the other man. His mind dredged up memories, sweet ones, ones full of lust, ones of soft caresses and gentle kisses. It was only on mornings like this that he allowed himself to think of these memories. Mornings when he didn't feel so completely alone and empty.

He focused on the most recent one, only a year ago. It had been after a meeting between Francis' boss and Arthur's. It had gone well, not amazing but better than could be expected. He hadn't listened to a word of it, his mind had been so focused on the other man sitting across from him, watching him as the English man took notes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote.

When everyone else filed out of the room and Arthur stayed behind to finish up his paper work Francis lingered. He waited for the door to close before he slid back into his seat, stretched his arms across the table and laid a hand over the papers. "Angleterre… you work much to hard." He kept his tone light and joking, Arthur seemed to notice and only rolled his eyes as he looked up at him.

"And you don't work enough, you bloody frog." Arthur retorted as he pulled the papers free and glanced over them to make sure none of the ink had smudged.

"You wound me," Francis said as he continued to watch the other man. He smiled a bit, "how about you take a break from work tonight and join me for dinner." He asked losing the joking tone now.

Arthur glanced up before he refocused on the papers, neatly stacking them and tucking them away in a folder. "I think I can make the time." Was his answer as he looked at his watch, which made Francis grin and stand up.

"Ah c'est bien! Six o'clock then, I'll pick you up." He didn't wait for an answer to that as he turned and left, feeling elated. Nothing could bring his day down.

Over dinner they talked about work or what was going on with their friends, they reminisced and kept things pleasant. They were on good terms right now, something that happened so rarely. Francis commented on the improvement in English cooking and earned a light jab to the shoulder from Arthur. They joked and moved into light conversation as they drove back to Arthur's place.

They had tea and cream, Francis only complained mildly about the scones but he smothered his in the thick sweet cream. They settled in and watched a program on the television before they moved to the bedroom. The sex had been anything but meaningless and it was sweet and gentle and wonderful. Francis whispered quiet words of tenderness to Arthur when he was sure the other was fast asleep, he curled his fingers through that blond hair and traced his jaw with his fingertips.

When he woke up, he curled around him, his fingers finding his hair again. He smiled and took in a deep breath, smelling the familiar scent that was Arthur. It was indefinable and unchanging. He'd memorized it centuries ago, on their first night together. He didn't think he would ever forget it.

Arthur had woken up shortly after, groggily curling up to Francis and burying his face in his shoulder, kissing the skin lightly, mouthing something Francis couldn't make out.

Francis blinked; he was alone again in his own room. The music had stopped and the silence seemed to bear down on him. He closed his eyes, trying to cling to the pleasant memories before they slipped away again. When he finally climbed out of bed and showered the warmth from the night with Justine was fading. He stood under the hot water, willing it to warm his chilled skin. He leaned against the tiled wall; arm folded against it and pressed his forehead into his wrist. Maybe he should call him.


End file.
